


Words Unspoken

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Bisexual Character, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Late Night Conversations, Love, M/M, No Sex, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Queerplatonic love, Romantic love, Sleeping Together, Valentine's Day, Vulnerability, brief sex mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 11:59:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6005128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Although they remain two very different men in many regards, it seems that in some ways they are immensely alike.’</p>
<p>Moriarty contemplates a feeling he cannot bring himself to speak of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> "Words unspoken are the only words I know are true"  
> \- VAST - ‘Be With Me’

    What is love? Did he ever really love anyone before?

     Moriarty does not recall ever experiencing what he would deem ‘love’ for his parents. Respect, at times; other times though largely there was only indifference towards them. They were often simply there in the background, doing nothing to harm him but also very little to make him care for them either. He also cannot recollect ever feeling what he would think of as love from them in return. Growing up in that austere household where even children’s names seemed to be rationed, he was not deprived entirely; he was not treated cruelly; not starved or beaten, but there was simply no affection shown, by the parents for their sons; in turn none shown by the sons for their parents.

      For his elder brother, also James, there is only loathing. For his younger brother, James again officially but always known as Jamie, perhaps that is the closest Professor James Moriarty came to experiencing love for another person with that mix of affection tinged with some protective instinct, particularly when James the elder  was intent on tormenting his youngest sibling.

     What of other forms of love though? There were never any pets permitted in the Moriarty household, no furry or feathered creatures the boys could grow attached to. There were no young servants they could befriend and the older servants were a sullen and distant lot. There were no playmates from elsewhere either; no children invited round to play with the boys or that they could roam about with. Only upon being sent away to school did the professor-to-be encounter boys of his own age in any meaningful way. Still though even as he grew up and saw those other boys discovering sex and forming intimate attachments – sometimes to maids or other young women; sometimes to each other – still he felt nothing save for a vague sense of curiosity about sex, but still no particular yearning for it; no lust for another person; no romantic longing either. The way in which others spoke of love anyway made him think it an insipid thing, something overly emotional and reckless that could quite literally drive a man mad, making fools of even the best and wisest of men once they fell ‘head over heels’ for someone. But then he was also led to believe that love was something sweet and light; something that made one feel deliriously happy, save for when lovers were cruelly parted or when one’s love went unrequited. Also that romance and sex were the only true forms and expressions of passion. No wonder then he tended to sneer at young lovers in his own youthful days, preferring to immerse himself in his studies instead of seeking out some conquest or even (and this thought is somewhat laughable now) a potential wife.

     Perhaps even as he grew up though it did not occur to him for a very long time that while he might be a largely sexless man, he was not a passionless one, and that there was far more to this ‘love’ malarkey than merely romance.

     Indeed Moriarty loves numbers – he loves the beauty and logic and rules of mathematics; he loves its codes and formulas; he loves the elegance of some fantastically complex equation written upon a blackboard, one that would appear to many to be a scribble of random numbers and letters and symbols but to him combine and flow into some perfectly sensible end result. He loves the patterns at the heart of seeming chaos.

     And music, perhaps the one thing that had succeeded before in bringing a dampness to his eyes and a slight blurring of his vision upon hearing a singer hit a difficult note perfectly or when complex harmonies were intertwined magnificently in some particularly exquisite piece of music. He can understand that music played with passion and skill or words sung brilliantly can speak to the human mind, the human _soul_ even, in ways likely no written or spoken language can, stirring a response, one drawn from the softer emotions, even in the most stoic of men.

      But he never thought that he could experience great intimate passion – no more than admiration perhaps – for any person, not until Moran came along. Sebastian Moran, his right hand, his marksman, his valet and bodyguard and secretary; his companion; his _lover_. Moran the stray number which interjected itself into an equation Professor Moriarty had thought perfect, proving that Moriarty’s approach had been incorrect all along. Moran the discordant note in the symphony, yet one which redefined everything in its discordance, making Moriarty question everything he thought he knew. Moran who made the professor realise that while he may never be a romantic by nature; while he may never experience genuine lust for anyone, still there is someone whose company he prefers to his ordinarily much-cherished solitude; someone who has even managed to stir the beginnings of selflessness in a largely selfish man.

      Yet what Moriarty feels for Moran is – like the aria sung so beautifully that he feels he might choke on the lump it brings to his throat – not sweet nor light, not always. Often it sits heavily in his chest, in his _heart_ (and how foolish that it should seem that way, that he should feel an _emotion_ with a mere muscle for pumping blood) when Moran is hurt; when Moran fails to return home when expected; when Moran closes in upon himself and is refusing to confide in Moriarty about what torments him. Even sometimes when Moriarty again feels that lingering self-doubt that leads him to question whether he is enough for Moran; if he can truly ever make his companion happy.

     But also… when Moran looks at him with such intense regard or when Moran puts such deep, seemingly limitless trust in him, this too causes that weight in the professor’s chest; that lump in his throat; a pang of emotion so sweet that it is almost painful in its intensity.  In some small way it reminds the professor of when he was a child, when little Jamie, frightened by a thunderstorm or sometimes a nightmare, would crawl into bed alongside him and snuggle into his arms, but even that was nothing compared to this. That Moran trusts him with his safety; his security; his happiness; his very _life_ moves Moriarty in ways he had long thought he could not be moved. Jamie he tolerated largely because he felt some vague fraternal obligation but he cannot think that he has ever been more than fond of the rather soppy, dreamy Jamie (whom if he had not gone off to play with trains would probably have become a terrible poet instead). Moran though is not bound to him by blood but was drawn to him through the professor’s actions, because of Moriarty’s choice – choosing to employ him first, then to take him as his intimate companion later. These feelings and urges and desires he has then – this fierce urge to protect Moran from harm; his wish to see Moran genuinely laugh or smile, not with the bitter contempt more common in the smiles and laughs he gives to others but with genuine warmth, smiling with his eyes and not merely his mouth; his desire to simply make Moran happy – they come not from some sense of brotherly duty but from something else. He would prefer still not to consider the cause of that; would prefer never to speak of it in more than the most vague terms; certainly never to put a word to it out loud. It is enough that it exists; it need not be laid bare and scrutinised and he need not even admit fully to himself that the thought of loving someone, deeply and profoundly, terrifies him utterly because of its accompanying sense of vulnerability.

     Beside him in the bed Moran stirs, turning over before he opens his eyes to sleepily look up at the professor in the semi-darkness of the bedroom.

     “You all right?” Moran asks.

     “Perfectly all right.”

     Moran shifts slightly again in the bed. “What time is it?”

     “A little after two O’clock, I believe.”

     “You been awake all this time?”

     “Yes.”

     Moran yawns before asking his next question. “Something on your mind?”

     “It’s nothing; go back to sleep.”

     “Professor.” A smile flickers briefly across Moran’s face. “You know I won’t get back to sleep if I think you’re frettin’ over something.”

     “I am hardly fretting.”

     “What then?” Moran nestles a little closer to him. “Pondering?”

     “Something like that.”

     “You can still tell me.”

      Moriarty looks down at Moran and sighs faintly, cognisant of the fact that now the colonel is awake and concerned about him he will not be able to escape the situation without giving Moran some kind of explanation. With most people he would be able to bluff his way through the matter or else curtly dismiss it as none of the other party’s concern, but Moran is not most people. Somehow the professor, more often than not, finds himself drawn to confide in him; to admit to his companion things he would never admit to another person, and sometimes things that he would be reluctant to admit even to himself.

     “I was simply… considering whether I have ever truly cared for anyone else before you.”

     Moran lifts his head up a little at this to better regard the professor. “And what was the conclusion of this ‘considering’?”

     “That… I have not.” Moriarty meets Moran’s gaze momentarily before turning his head away. He can feel his cheeks growing hot. He wonders if Moran can tell even in the dark how flushed his face is.

     A faint smile flashes over Moran’s face again before he drops his head down, turning his gaze away from the professor’s face. “I see.”

     To Moriarty this seems like an inadequate response but then he is far from certain how he would like Moran to respond. Even making this confession to the colonel is walking on very dangerous ground – tiptoeing ever closer to an admission of an illogical feeling, an uncontrollable emotion that Moriarty would still retain the illusion of control over; territory he is sure he would not deign to venture into were it not for the darkness of the room and Moran’s sleepiness.

     “Sebastian,” he says. “Have _you_ ever… felt for another person what you feel for me?”

     He feels Moran shake his head before he speaks. “No.” Moran sits up suddenly in the bed, though he keeps his head bowed. “Course there were those I had feelings for. There was this lad once, and then Kitty of course. She still means much to me but I s’pose me and her… we just never quite connected in that way. It still was never like this, how I… care for you.” He lifts his gaze then to meet Moriarty’s again, and Moriarty is reminded suddenly of all the times he has seen Moran truly naked.

      Sebastian Moran is a virile man; not only does he experience forms of attraction that Moriarty does not feel, his libido far surpasses the professor’s, as does his wealth of sexual experience with others. He seems – or seemed, in the past – to be perfectly content to strip off all his clothes and engage in the sexual act with countless other men and women. Baring himself in that way concerned him not at all. Indeed even now Moriarty can see the pale form of Moran’s naked upper body above the bed covers as he sits there in the dark. But simply removing one’s clothes, Moriarty has come to realise, is not true nakedness at all.

      There have been times – when Moran is face to face with him during sex; when he is entirely at Moriarty’s mercy during their games; in the moments during and just after his climax; simply even when Moran is upset over some matter not involving the professor or when he is ill or injured – when Moriarty has seen raw, unrestrained terror in the eyes of this courageous former soldier and hunter. It is not a fear of Moriarty himself (for no matter how domineering Moriarty may be, Moran’s trust in Moriarty remains unshakeable) but of the sheer intimacy that has come to exist between them. _That_ is true nakedness, Moran baring not merely his body but his _soul_ to the professor. Even like this, where Moran has contentedly slept naked beside him, it is less the fact that Moran has declined to sleep in a nightshirt and far more that he has chosen to sleep beside Moriarty at all that is profoundly significant. Moran may be the one who has killed far more living creatures (men included) than Moriarty ever will but that does not mean Moriarty is the less dangerous one.

    Moriarty is perfectly aware of the fact that Moran has put himself into incredibly vulnerable positions with him, not only physically but also emotionally, time and time again, going completely against his otherwise mistrustful, suspicious nature; pushing aside all the memories of the occasions where others have mistreated and betrayed him. If Moriarty is terrified of the realisation that he has come to love Moran, he does not doubt that Moran is just as terrified of the thought that he has come to love the professor too. Even the comparatively more sentimental colonel is as yet unable to ever use the word ‘love’, afraid for a myriad of reasons to pin a label to it, even though the sense of that word is always there now between them, lingering beneath the surface. Although they remain two very different men in many regards, it seems that in some ways they are immensely alike. There is some comfort to be gained, the professor thinks, from the fact that for all Moran’s past experience he is perhaps just as much at sea as Moriarty when it comes to their intimate relationship.

    “I am your first then,” he says, and he is glad to be reminded of this fact. It does not concern him too much what Moran got up to in the past. It is by and large irrelevant how many past sexual partners the colonel had before he even knew of Moriarty’s existence, and there are also benefits to Moran having had so much sexual experience (Moriarty is sure that their developing relationship would have been even more awkward had Moran been as sexually inexperienced as he was himself). Even so, there are times when Moriarty struggles to crush those irrational, illogical faint stirrings of jealousy that the thought of Moran lying with other people threatens to fan into life.

    Moran grins, giving Moriarty one of those impish looks where real warmth and amusement are clearly visible in his eyes as well as upon his lips. “Yes, in that way, you’re my first.”

    “I’m glad of that.” Moriarty puts his hand to Moran’s face, caressing his cheek, feeling how Moran leans against his touch. The colonel’s skin feels cool, hardly surprising given that he is naked even when it is only mid February. “Get back under the covers, Sebastian, you’ll catch your death of cold,” Moriarty chides.

    Obediently Moran lies down, pressing himself against the professor’s chest whilst Moriarty pulls the bedclothes up over him. Moran cannot resist placing a light kiss against Moriarty’s neck, then another further down his throat, just above the neckline of his nightshirt. “D’you know what day it is today?” he asks.

    “Sunday,” Moriarty says, smiling as he rubs Moran’s bare back with both hands to warm him up. “And, yes, Saint Valentine’s day,” he adds before Moran can laughingly point this out. There is a brief instant though when this recollection is shot through with anguish. Saint Valentine’s day, a day for the celebration of a feeling neither of them can fully admit that they feel, itself poignant, but also a sobering reminder that even if one day they could speak of their feelings aloud, society at large would not accept them, declaring them only as symptomatic of sickness or sinfulness. Moriarty sees the slightly pained look that flits across Moran’s face and knows that the colonel is thinking the same thing. It will not do however to dwell on such matters. “Once we have reached a more appropriate hour of this day,” he says, “how would you like to spend it?”

     “With you,” Moran replies at once.

     “But doing what?” Moriarty asks. There is a small part of him that is expecting Moran to reel off some great list of sexual acts he wishes to indulge in throughout the day and in various different locations, though the greater portion of him expects precisely the answer he is given.

     “Whatever you want, Professor. I don’t mind.”

     “Whatever I want, hmm?” Moriarty leans forward as he draws one hand up to cradle the back of Moran’s head. “Well, my dove, I shall have to give the matter some consideration later on, after we get some sleep of course.” He presses a quick, gentle kiss to Moran’s lips.

     Moran smiles against Moriarty’s mouth. “Of course,” he says, grinning still as he withdraws from the kiss. He yawns again as he settles back down, snuggling against Moriarty’s shoulder. “You will get to sleep now all right?” he asks though before he closes his eyes and gets too cosy.

     “I think so,” Moriarty replies, because he does suspect that he will do so, having been reassured a great deal by the reminder of how much Moran is like him in some ways.

     “Well, goodnight then.” Moran contemplates this statement briefly, glancing up at the professor again to ascertain his reaction. “Or should it be good morning?”

     “How about ‘happy Valentine’s day’?” Moriarty suggests with a fond grin, sliding his arm around Moran’s body to draw him a little closer against his side. He lets his eyes slip closed, though not before he has seen Moran’s smile in response to this.

     “All right.” Moran is still grinning as he closes his own eyes. “Happy valentine’s day, Professor.”

     And so contentedly, in the early hours of Valentine’s day, with his sleeping lover curled against him, Moriarty finally drifts into a peaceful sleep.


End file.
